


The Guy Who (Sorta) Flew

by beetle



Category: Original Work
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Anxiety, Arrogance, Chance Meetings, Escapism, Flirting, Flying, Fuck You Gravity, M/M, Magical Realism, Meet-Cute, Pre-Slash, Role Reversal, Suicide, Suicide attempt?, Yuppie, corporate world, geek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:31:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No!” I shouted, frozen in place. “You have so much to live for! Don’t do it!”</p>
<p>The guy glanced around again, annoyed. “Don’t do <i>what</i>? And how do <i>you</i> know what I have to live for? You—wait a second.” The guy grinned, bright and playful, then laughed. “You think I’m up here to <i>kill myself</i>?”</p>
<p>I blinked. Edged a little closer to him. I was just two yards away, now. “Well . . . <i>yeah</i>. I mean, isn’t that what you’re about to do? Kill yourself by jumping off the ledge?”</p>
<p>“Hardly.” Looking back over the city again, he went on. “<i>I</i> . . . am going to <i>fly</i>.”</p>
<p>Stymied, I paused in my approach. “Beg pardon?”</p>
<p>“<i>Fly</i>, Mr. Burrell. I’m going to <i>fly</i>!” he exclaimed, then with a laugh and a big shove, hurled himself off the roof, whooping. I lunged forward to grab him and missed—both him and my footing, which sent me careening forward over the ledge with a shout, pin-wheeling my arms. I felt my whole body tilt precipitously forward then plunge downward faster than it’s ever gone before. . . .</p>
<p>Written for the prompt(s): I remember. . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Guy Who (Sorta) Flew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badskippy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskippy/gifts).



> None.

* * *

 

I remember feeling so good, so confident. . . .

I had just landed the Gimmelfarb account and was everyone’s fair-haired boy. The bosses loved me, the other middle managers envied me, and the next time a promotion came down the figurative pike it was, beyond all doubt, _mine_.

I was on top of the world.

_Almost literally_ , I thought as I stared at the cigarette-littered rooftop around me and finally, further out, the city below. As always, from a height of several dozen stories and with the aggressive sunlight beating down, the people and cars looked like so many milling ants, while I, from my vantage point of way-the-fuck-up-high, was a _Titan_. I swelled with pride and confidence in the only person I could count on, on this shit-heap planet—this was _my_  city, and the world was _my_ oyster—and let wave after wave of self-satisfaction wash over me.

Whistling, I kicked a loose brick back into the doorway to act as a jamb, and made my way toward the east-facing ledge. That was the best view, in my humble opinion, and I’d enjoyed many a cancer-stick while contemplating it.

Though, admittedly, few of those times had been this sweet.

I was halfway to the ledge and lighting my second of four cigarettes for the day, when a voice called from behind me: “Nice going snagging the Gimmelfarb account.”

Startled, I got two lungs full of smoke for my trouble and nearly dropped my cigarette.

Coughing, I turned around.

Straddling the west-facing ledge was a mousy, but vaguely familiar-looking young guy. He had one leg on the rooftop and the other swung out over the city. His off-the-rack clothes of button-down olive shirt, grey slacks, and a midnight-blue, probably clip-on tie, seemed to bag on his slight frame. Huge, hideous glasses sat on a pale, peaked face with fine features and topped by carrot-y, thatchy hair grown out of any style.

“You _are_ Wayne Burrell, right?” the guy prodded, and I nodded with one last cough to clear my lungs.

“Somebody’s gotta be.” I shrugged. “And you are. . . ?”

The guy smiled. Rather, he stretched a thin-lipped grimace over his teeth and shook his head wryly.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said softly, though his voice, an almost musical tenor, seemed a bit crestfallen. “Or it won’t, in a few moments.”

“Uh,” I said, and the guy swung his other leg over the ledge so that they were both dangling over the city, and he was facing west. “What’re you doing?”

“None of it matters, anymore, Mr. Burrell, don’t you see?” the guy said in an absent tone and, damnit, I still couldn’t place his face—IT? Marketing? Creative? He _looked_ like a creative—I suddenly knew what he was up here for. A cold frisson of horror worked its way down my back and my cigarette fell from nerveless fingers.

“Shit—now, hold on, buddy—” I began, trying to hurry toward him without startling him into something precipitous. Not that he was paying me any mind. He was laughing a little: quiet, cynical, and somewhat unhinged.

“You don’t even know my name—don’t _remember_ me, do you?” he asked, glancing at me over his bony shoulder. There were tears shining on his cheeks. “You really don’t know who I am.”

“Sure, I do.” I put on the grin that’d helped me secure the Gimmelfarb account. It was all I could _think_ to do, at the moment: use the greatest weapon in my arsenal . . . personal charm. “And if you just . . . move away from that ledge, we can get all caught up since the last time we, uh, talked.” I worked that grin for all it was worth.

But it wasn’t worth Jack to this guy. He merely huffed, and looked out over the western part of the city. Then he braced his hands on the ledge, as if he was going to push himself off.

“No!” I shouted, frozen in place. “You have so much to live for! Don’t do it!”

The guy glanced around again, annoyed. “Don’t do  _what_? And how do  _you_ know what I have to live for? You—wait a second.” The guy grinned, bright and playful, then laughed. “You think I’m up here to _kill_ myself?”

I blinked. Edged a little closer to him. I was just two yards away, now. “Well . . . yeah. I mean, isn’t that what you’re about to do? Kill yourself by jumping off the ledge?”

“Hardly.” Looking back over the city again, he went on. “I . . . am going to  _fly_.”

Stymied, I paused in my approach. “Beg pardon?”

“ _Fly_ , Mr. Burrell. I’m going to  _fly_!” he exclaimed, then with a laugh and a big shove, hurled himself off the roof, whooping. I lunged forward to grab him and missed—both him and my footing, which sent me careening forward over the ledge with a shout, pin-wheeling my arms. I felt my whole body tilt precipitously forward then plunge downward faster than it’s ever gone before.

The sensation of falling from a great height is awful. Seeing the world turn and turn about you as you tumble end over end, and the ground rushes up toward you, is the worst feeling you could ever feel. As the ground gets closer you scream and scream, and that same scream seems to be forced—by the fall—back down your throat. But still, you scream. You know you’re going to die, and die from _falling_. And you scream more from that than from knowledge of the sudden stop you know is coming shortly.

And come, it  _does_.

Though, for me . . . it wasn’t from impacting the parking lot that was speeding up toward me, but from up _above_. In utter shock, I looked up along the length of my body. The guy from the roof was hovering,  _in mid-air_ , unassisted, a look of concentration and strain on his thin, young face as he scanned the ground below us and we began to descend slowly, but pretty steadily.

There were no visible ropes or wires, no bungee cord leading from him back up to the top of the building. At least none that I could see . . . not that I was in the best shape to be making such observations.

“Unh! You’re heavier than you  _look_ ,” the guy panted, sounding disgruntled as he lowered me—by just his pale, freckled hands on my dark-brown ankle—to the ground. It should’ve hurt, but I was too shocked to feel anything other than existential fright and angry disbelief. “Quit flailing!”

“ _What the fuck?!_ ” I screeched, continuing to flail nonetheless, as I teetered on the very edge of sanity. “ _What. The. FUCK?!_ ”

Then my back brushed the ground, followed unceremoniously by the rest of me as the guy let go of my ankle with a grunt, and the rest of me dropped to the ground between two rows of shiny, happy cars.

I was . . . alive. . . .

I was  _alive_.

I curled up in a fetal ball on the ground, shaking and shivering, dry-heaving and moaning.

Cheap sneakers touched the ground near my head. Then the guy’s narrow, worried face was hovering before my own as he knelt in front of me.

“Uh,” he said, seeming both nervous and concerned. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Y-You can f-fly.”

“Well,  _duh_.” He rolled his eyes and smiled. “At least, I can make a controlled descent. If not for you, I might be winging my way off into the sunset, by now.”

“We coulda _d-died_ ,” I mumbled, closing my eyes and shuddering. I felt the guy’s hand settle on my shoulder, warm and steady.

“Well,  _you_  coulda. But you didn’t,” he quickly added when I whimpered. “I caught you, right? Right.”

“People don’t fly.”

“No, most people don’t,” the guy agreed cheerfully. “Doesn’t mean they  _can’t_ , though. You’d be surprised how many of us there are.”

I opened my eyes and stared into his. They were the same olive-green as his stupid, off-the-rack shirt. “There are  _m-more_  of you out there?”

“Uh . . . maybe? I mean, anything’s possible, right?” The guy glanced around furtively, seeming suddenly nervous as he lowered his voice. “Can’t have the government getting their dirty-filthy paws on us, dissecting us, seeing what makes someone able to defy the law of gravity.”

I moaned again and hugged my knees closer to my chest. “This is a dream, right? I’m really back on the roof, having a nervous breakdown from all the stress of fighting for the Gimmelfarb account, right?”

The guy snorted. “Please. Wayne Burrell eats stress for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

My eyes widened. “How—how’d you know I say that?”

The guy’s smile was self-deprecating and wry, but kind. “You really, truly don’t remember me.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, but I don’t. Dunno how I could’ve forgotten a guy who can fly, though.”

“Well,” the guy said, tugging on my arm till I let go of my knees and slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y sat up, trying to ignore the way the world was spinning. When I was fully upright, he joined me on the ground, tailor-fashion. “You didn’t know I could fly, then. You didn’t know anything  _about_  me . . . except that I was new at the company, and having a panic attack in the restroom.” The guy searched my eyes, then shook his head, laughing a little. “You were the first and only person who was even remotely kind to me since I’d been here. Got me calmed down enough to take me up to the roof for air, and talked to me—rather, let  _me_  talk at  _you_ —till I was something that could pass for normal. Then you walked me back to my desk, got me a cup of water, and gave me your email addy. Said if I ever needed to talk again, I could email you any time.”

I blinked and shook my head twice, dreads flying and thwapping the sides of my face. “I don’t remember that, at all.”

“Well, it _was_ three years ago.”

“Shit,” I said, startled to realize that I’d been at the company for almost seven years, now. “And you remember something that happened three years ago?”

“It may not have been a big deal to you, but it was to  _me_.” The guy got a bit defensive and adjusted his dumb, ugly glasses. “You’re the reason I made it through that first day, first week, first month, first year. Whenever I thought I couldn’t handle this place, I’d think of you and how you helped me.” Smiling again, he held out his hand. “Thanks.”

I was dubious, but took his hand and shook it, noticing how cold my own was, despite the warmth of the day. “I think you’ve more than repaid me.”

The guy laughed and let go of my hand, blushing. “Hey, you thought you were saving my life. You wouldn’t have fallen if I hadn’t jumped. Sorry.”

“Eh, it’s totally copacetic,” I said with a slightly hysterical laugh, and the guy’s smile faded a bit.

“Seriously, though . . . are you gonna be okay?”

I opened my mouth to say:  _Of course! So you can fly? Big fucking deal!_  But what came out was a belch. I quickly covered my mouth, blushing. “I dunno. Dunno  _anything_ , anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” the guy said again, and I laughed once more.

“It’s not your fault. Or maybe it is. I dunno,” I repeated, wrapping my arms around myself and glancing around me at all the shiny, happy cars parked neatly in their slots. They were completely indifferent to the fact that this guy could fly, and that I was apparently going into shock of some kind.

“Look, you seem . . . like a man who needs a drink,” the guy started.

“Or several.”

“Yeah. My thoughts, exactly. And it’s almost lunch time. What say I take you to  _O’Flannigan’s_  for a few drinks to calm your nerves?”

I looked into the guy’s worried eyes, and chewed my lip: a nervous habit I thought I’d gotten rid of years ago. “What’s your name?”

The guy smiled again, big and pleased. “You were the first person at this company who’d ever asked me _that_ , too. You’re just all kinds of wonderful, aren’t you, Mr. Burrell?”

I sensed he wasn’t being sarcastic, but my reply was: “Yeah . . . I’m a real prince.”

The guy chuckled. He had a nice one, low, slow, and infectious. “Well, I don’t know about  _that_ , but you were pretty cool to _me_.”

“I wish I could remember,” I said, and meant it. And it was weird that I  _didn’t_ remember. I usually had a great memory for faces.

“Well, you might’ve remembered me better if I’d ever emailed you and maybe offered to take you to lunch or drinks back _then_. At least to say thanks for keeping me from having a complete meltdown.” The guy sighed and shrugged.

“Why . . . why didn’t you?” I asked, sitting up straighter. The guy watched me with wistful, wry green eyes.

“Honestly? Because I thought you wouldn’t remember me, or care. Or that you’d say no.”

“I wouldn’t have,” I said softly, without knowing whether that was true.

“Perhaps. But you were middle management, popular, good-looking, and upwardly-mobile . . . everything I wasn’t. You were  _so_  out of my league. I just plain didn’t have the stones to ask you out in any capacity,” the guy said matter-of-factly, and I gaped. He gaped back, mirroring the look I’m sure was on my face, then chuckled again. “Don’t be so surprised, Mr. Burrell. Half of Creative and all of Secretarial wants to jump  _your_ fine-ass bones. But rumor has it you don’t even _talk_ about your personal life and you most _definitely_ don’t shit where you eat.”

“I don’t,” I averred, blushing once more. “I learned the hard way what happens to people who fuck their coworkers at my last company. Nothing good, let me assure you.”

“Well, let’s just say I’m from the Show Me-State, on that subject. Depending on the coworker, that is.” The guy gave me a once-over that was rather heated, then chuckled some more, seemingly at himself, before jumping to his feet and extending his hand to me. “C’mon, Mr. Burrell, let’s get started on those drinks. My treat.”

I hesitated a moment, then took his hand and slowly got to my feet. The world still spun a little, but squinching my eyes shut and counting to ten made it stop. When I opened my eyes again, the guy was watching me patiently with raised eyebrows.

“Okay?”

I hesitated before nodding. “Better, anyway.”

“Good.” The guy winked and let go of my hand. I hadn’t even realized he was still holding it. “My car isn’t far.”

“You mean we’re not gonna  _fly_  to _O’Flannigans_?” I asked, almost smiling myself as he took his keys out of his pocket and jingled them.

“Nah.” He shook his head and laughed, but it was a slightly shamed one. “I was having a . . . moment of crisis. Flying off into the sunset was my plan of last resort. C’mon.”

The guy started walking and I caught up with him, a second later. My ankle ached and my legs were a bit rubbery, but serviceable. “And what happened to change your plans?”

Green eyes cast a sideways glance at me and the guy smiled. “Let’s just say that I suddenly feel as if I’ve got a reason to stay. Or at least a reason to _consider_ staying.”

I turned crimson—not that it’d show up on _my_ complexion—again and looked down at my feet. But I was, inexplicably, almost smiling.

“You never _did_ tell me your name,” I said—almost pleaded. The guy made a face, half-impatient and half-amused.

“You’re gonna think I’m shining you on, when I do. . . .” he sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at his moving feet for a few moments before looking up at me again, challenge shining in his green eyes. “Thomas Anderson.”

I was gaping again, wondering if I really  _was_  having a nervous breakdown up on the roof. Or worse: at my desk. “And is your hacker alias  _Neo_ , as well?”

“Nope. I’m not that kind of geek.” He elbowed me gently and pointed at a blue Ford Focus in the row to our left. “And my middle initial isn’t  _A_. It’s  _O_.”

“Of course it is,” I noted casually as Thomas _O_. Anderson unlocked the passenger door of his car, then elbowed me again. I got in when he opened the door for me, then looked up at him as he leaned on it, taking off his damned glasses. He was, in that moment, in that ray of sunshine, ridiculously cute and surprisingly attractive . . . like a real-life Archie Andrews. Cute, attractive, and completely unflustered by recent events. I shook my head. “How has this not been the most surreal fifteen minutes of your life? ‘Cause they have been for me.”

Thomas grinned. “Hey, at least you were alive to enjoy them, right?”

Sighing, I looked up at the blue sky; at the bright sun shining out of it; at the glittering, modern miracle of glass and steel that surrounded us; at the beautiful _world_ around me—which was apparently much stranger than I’d ever thought it to be—and had to agree. “Yeah. I guess that’s the best way to look at it. . . .”

Or at least it was the only way to look at it that would allow me to remain sane.

How had I ever thought, no matter my vantage point, that a world that could apparently contain people like Thomas O. Anderson was _smaller_ than me?

Smiling kindly, Thomas shut the door and jogged around the front of it to get to the driver’s side. He slid in easily, locked the doors, and started the car.

His eyes met mine, cheeky and admiring all at once, and I flushed again.

“Buckle up, Wayne,” he said jauntily, doing so himself, before putting on his glasses and peeling out of the spot. Then out of the parking lot, altogether, probably leaving twin trails of rubber.

I buckled my seatbelt, and held on for dear life, watching traffic and Main Street speed by, and wondering what surreal shenanigans the  _next_  fifteen minutes would bring.

 

END


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